


Outside the Four Seasons

by Paian



Category: Sanctuary (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Flirting, Kissing, Older Characters, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairing, Romance, Season/Series 07, Washington D.C., Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've cooperated professionally for over a year through intermediaries; this is their first time meeting in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Four Seasons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At the Double Palm](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6958) by joelthecat. 



Cherry trees strew their path with blossoms, the light of streetlamps catching the petals as they drift softly down, highlighting the beauty of the ephemeral. They stop along a row of quiet Georgian townhouses, in the discreet shadow of a larger tree. She slips out of her heels, and the pavement is pleasantly cool and nubbly against her bare soles.

His kiss is polite at first, his hands light and courteous on her waist, and when she tilts her head and parts her lips to offer more, his mouth is gentle and knowing, his tongue deft. She slides her arms around him, presses deeper, and feels more than a hint of the strength in the arms he welcomes her into. He fills her embrace with a delicious solidity, the hard muscle of a career soldier under a cushiony spread of maturity. He wears a touch of light cologne, he tastes of rich coffee and sugary liqueur, and he feels _splendid_ \-- sturdy, masculine, virile, human.

Her body, which for so long has seemed irrevocably imprinted on Druitt's tall wiry angularity, melts into the general's stout breadth with a yearning that astonishes her.

The Georgetown reception was an opportunity to conduct business, in person and in one convenient location, with several Washington power brokers, two visiting dignitaries, the United States Air Force, and a kitchen-staff abnormal who was instrumental in effecting the safe capture of an amphibious cryptid inhabiting the C&O Canal. She intended to head up to her suite for a room-service meal and an early night once her transactions were successfully concluded, but she lingered to chat with the Air Force general. He heads a secret facility not entirely unlike her own, they'd cooperated periodically for over a year through intermediaries, this was their first time meeting face-to-face, and she found him to be both charming and compelling. A lull in the conversation when they had not remotely run out of things to say was the simultaneous recognition that they were making excuses to stay in each other's company. She asked if he'd eaten, he said he snacked on his flight, she suggested a late supper, he recommended an unpretentious restaurant within walking distance.

Halfway through the light meal she knew she was smitten. His grace and graciousness, his easygoing humor and quiet charm, the glints of steel beneath them. His passion for his work and his people; his low, resonant chuckle, the way he dropped his head when he laughed; his eyes, the blue of clear daytime skies, sharply assessing one moment, twinkling the next. She knew a kindred soul when she met one, however seldom it happened. They talked about their daughters, their hopes and fears and triumphs; they traded war stories, both figurative and literal; he told her briefly of his wife's death, just over a decade ago, and of how he'd welcomed the demanding job his dull pre-retirement posting had turned into, because he'd dreaded facing alone the golden years they'd planned together. They could say only so much about their respective operations, but she told him more about herself than she had told anyone in years, and felt a savage gratitude when nothing she said fazed him in the least. In a sultry, lazy drawl, he told her he'd never been threatened by older women, and in the good Queen's English she informed him that she'd always quite fancied baldheaded men. Then he was picking up the check, and she was letting him, and that their next destination was her hotel room was warmly understood.

Now she's loath to separate from him even to take him to bed, and she's coming to realize how much more than that she wants. This is a man she can see herself dining with night after night, waking beside dawn after dawn, never tiring of him, never fearing that she is more than he can handle ... never fearing that the darkness within him will be more than she can stand. A man molded by the kind of experiences that have molded her, the responsibilities, the weight and pressure of stakes and secrets that only a handful of leaders on this world have any conception of. With a limitless span of years ahead of her, she lives a lifetime in the space of a single kiss, loved and trusted and never abused, aided in times of need, secure ... happy. She hasn't indulged in girlish dreams in more than a century, but this is romantic whimsy matured and tempered: she knows how deeply rewarding the reality, however fancifully imagined, would be.

He's hard against her groin, pressing into the press of her hips. He makes a low sound deep in his throat, like a muted growl, and for a moment his hands tighten on her. Much as she would wish it, these aren't the signs of him surrendering to passion. She knows before she withdraws her tongue and his tongue doesn't chase after it that he's collecting himself to push away.

His mouth goes still, but stays on hers, a lingering press of lips that expresses the depth of his regret more honestly than any spoken apology. She returns a kiss of acceptance and understanding, then draws back and slowly opens her eyes.

His gaze is sad, but steady. "My wife," he says softly.

She nods, and lifts a hand to smooth his tie as she disengages their bodies with a shift of weight. His hands stay briefly on her waist, then slide away. She can't help but smile; this is the kind of man whose fidelity roots deep and outlasts the grave, and of course he must gallantly bow out. It's a compliment, really. If what had begun unfolding here were only sexual, he wouldn't be stopping it. But it's become clear that what would happen in her hotel suite would be far more than that, and this is a man who does not break his vows.

"It was a lovely evening," she says, placing a hint of emphasis on was, to affirm its pleasure and acknowledge its ending.

"It still is," he says, in his rich, low drawl, meaning the soft spring night. Then, with eyes only for her and a light brush of fingers along her jaw: "It always will be."

He pivots to flank her, offers his arm; she takes it gladly, steps back into her shoes, and cherishes the last sweet moments of the pretty dream as he escorts her back towards the Four Seasons through the soft bright fall of flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Based (the behind-the-scenes SGC-Sanctuary connection, the rare-pairing-encounter scenario, the general arc of the encounter, the in-a-different-city setting, the preposition-establishmentname title, the double-entendre establishment name, and the pairing itself) on '[At the Double Palm](http://moragmacpherson.dreamwidth.org/85726.html?thread=297950#cmt297950)' in response to a comment on it.


End file.
